Thursday, November 27, 2008

Tis the season to excuse gluttony and watch a bunch of idiots jump in a pile repeatedly, also known as football. I wouldn't mind all the jumping in a pile so much if they didn't talk about it so long after each pile up, as if they'd done something really special. People suggest I just don't understand, which is certainly true. What they don't wonder is if in fact I understand perfectly and they're spending entire afternoons on the couch watching a bunch of idiots jump in a pile, which I suppose would be hard to admit as you barrel toward a chip and beer induced heart attack having spent so many afternoons of your life yelling at people on TV who can't hear you and don't care if you think they should have thrown the fucking ball in some other direction.

This year I am spending the holiday with the in laws, which is going fine. We are apparently deep frying a turkey. For those of you who have not witnessed such a thing, it goes like this. First you raise and kill a chicken, gut and defeather it, chop off the head and legs, throw the remains in some water and boil it. Then do whatever with the chicken. Put the chicken flavored water aside. Raise and kill a turkey. Pull off its feathers, take out its guts, chop off its head and legs, wrap it in plastic and sell it by the pound. Unwrap it. Inject it with the water from the chicken. Alternately, stick it in a plastic bag filled with salt water. Meanwhile, set an enormous pot out back and fill it with grease. Boil the grease. Drink some beers. Take the chicken-salt-water turkey and carefully lower it into the boiling oil. If you don't set anything on fire, take a drink. Hang out a while. Drink some beer. Somehow, this 20 lb. bird carcass will be cooked through in about an hour. Get someone sober to help lift it out of the boiling oil. If no one catches on fire, take a drink. Eat the turkey. This is apparently delicious. We'll find out in about an hour.

I do appreciate the opportunity to be thankful we can afford to be gluttons, though, and that history changes things. I am, for instance, grateful to not have woken up on a hay matress to build a fire for warmth, hope the natives whose land I stole won't kill me, wear a dress made of yarn I spun myself after shearing my own sheep, be miserably married to a musket-carrying pilgrim who bathes twice a year and live in a handmade cabin. Fuck that. When my tax refund comes in, I'm gettin' an Itouch and in the meantime, I'm in some store bought Levi's waiting for tortured turkey. Here's to tradition. Or not.

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